Author's note: Thanks everyone for all the reads, reviews, follows and favourites – I totally wasn't expecting anything like the positive response I have got. As this is case fic, I figure I'm gonna have to work out how to write out deductions – if only you guys could see the little movie in my head, right? Hope they don't seem too clunky! Also, as promised, the beginnings of some Sherlolly!

Disclaimer: I own nothing, everyone was created by ACD / Moftiss / the fabulous actors. Just playing

CHAPTER TWO

Seven months earlier…

"Why exactly am I here, Lestrade?"

"God's sake, I've got the bloody Chief Superintendent breathing down my neck to solve these murders, and I can't even work out if they are bloody murders! So who else am I gonna call in, the crime fairy?"

"No, the shortcomings of your detective work are painfully clear, as usual. What I meant was why am I here – the morgue – instead of the crime scene?"

"Oh." Taking Sherlock's quirked eyebrow as a tacit signal to continue, Lestrade rubbed self-consciously at his neck, mildly embarrassed at his evident frustration. "The victim, erm, deceased person … he was alive when he was brought in. Paramedics picked him up half way down Union Street and brought him in the to A&E. But after the four seizures that we know of, he fell into a coma and, well, an eventual visit to Molly here."

Ignoring the little wave Molly gave at the mention of her name, Sherlock continued to intently regard the detective: wrinkled clothes, patchy shave this morning. Wife gone? Wrong. Wearing his ring again, and smells like her usual fragrance. Pressure from above? Wrong. Yes, yes, he had mentioned it, but increased reports to superiors result in increased personal grooming. Utterly out of his depth? Anticipating a spree? No evidence to the contrary…

"Out of your depth, Lestrade? Take me through the little that your division have managed to scrape together so far."

"Three men, mid to late forties according to path's best estimates, all found dead or dying within a five mile radius of Blackfriars Road. All of them wore dark suits, looked pretty well groomed, but none of them carried any ID or had any identifying features, and no one has reported any of the poor buggers missing so far. Fredrickson over at Guys and St Thomas did the first two autopsies, but he couldn't find any cause of death other than, well, being dead." Holding up a hand to stop Sherlock in his tracks, before the interruption ever came, he continued, "So knowing your strong opinions about Fredrickson, I had John Doe the third shipped over here to Bart's for Molls to take a look."

"And that's it?"

"That's the gist of it, yeah. Look, just can the attitude; I'm working blind here. I can't tell if there even is something fishy going on here, but the Brass have decided that three deaths in five days is too rapid to ignore, and as some smart arse keeps telling me that there is rarely such thing as a coincidence –"

"And I am correct. Let's review the physical evidence we have at hand and give Doctor Hooper here a chance to get to work, rather than her spectator seats to the incompetence of New Scotland Yard's … ahem… finest." Twitching his lip slightly at the guilty rattle of the implement tray behind him, where the pace of work had been decreasing steadily for the past 64 seconds, Sherlock fished out a pair of gloves from the cardboard box mounted to the wall, and turned to review the scant pile that comprised the victim's effects.

Trousers: fine layer of dust rising between 15 and 23cm from the bottom seam. Note: take sample for geographical comparison. Dark blue/black – difficult to tell in the artificial morgue light – confirm later. Thin material. Cheap? Wrong. Fine quality stitching on hems, pockets lined in silk not cheaper satin. Made for a warmer climate? Possible… Maker's label – Smalto. French brand, ready to wear range (as this obviously was, creasing pattern indicative of incorrect leg length) costs €1000-€3000. Obviously money to spend on presentation, if a lack of time. Man of good taste (subjective! Focus!).

"You okay, Molly?"

"Me? Yeah, I'm fine Claire."

"You didn't have to come in today, y'know. We could have got your shift covered if you needed a bit of time to yourself."

"Don't be silly, I'm fine. It's not like anyone died or anything. Look, could you grab me his patient notes out of filing, I just want to check through everything before I start the dissection." Turning her back on her autopsy technician, Molly smiled brightly at the two detectives currently sharing her morgue. The last thing she wanted was for one of Sherlock's cutting deductions, not today. But as he seemed safely channelled into the evidence, with Lestrade watching avidly, Molly allowed her shoulders to slump and her face to fall, a few seconds of honesty and relief before Claire's light footsteps had her plastering on a smile again.

Shirt: cut open down the centre in one smooth cut. Medical intervention - irrelevant. Small crease, half way up the placket, next to the fourth buttonhole. Tie pin? Probable, but none present (no tie either). Why? Trophy? Possible – check other victims. Likelihood of identification decreased? More likely, on balance of probability. Dark blue ink stain from outside to inside of breast pocket, running vertically from top to bottom for 72mm. Must check…

Jotting down preliminary notes from her review of the file, Molly began to catalogue her facts in two columns on her pad – those needed for her eventual report, in the order they would be needed, and her special "Sherlock column", with interest or usefulness being the main factors. So, age – mid forties looked about right, but she could always do that new radiographic examination of laryngeal structures if no ident turned up any time soon. Molly had been itching to get her hands on the radiographic lab, ever since reading a recent article in the Journal of Forensic Science, but Mike had kept prodding her towards bone measurements ever since…

Yes, work was much better. You knew where you were at with the ossification of cartilaginous structures. They didn't accuse you of ridiculous things based on one little incident. Well, two or three, but still ridiculous given how strident Molly's arguments had been. And they didn't leave you in the lurch for their share of a very expensive hotel room. Or…

Jacket: also Smalto (distinctive lapels). Pockets empty, except for… copious amounts of still wet ink in the left inside pocket. Suggests impact on some kind of pen – removed. Biro? Wrong. Fountain? Potential… note: obtain sample for chromatography and comparison. Vertical drying pattern – victim was still upright immediately after impact.

Shoes: also dusty, minimal wear. Would be helpful if I had a murder scene to compare them to! Still, enough to astound Gr-… Ga-… Lestrade with here…

Straightening, Sherlock wheeled dramatically to face his audience, enjoying the slight coat swirl, which never failed to draw attention from everyone in the room. Everyone except Molly Hooper? (note: atypical reaction – pursue at apposite moment).

"Well, I can't tell you much, of course, without seeing the body and consulting with Dr. Hooper here…" (still no reaction - ?) "… just that our victim was a man of some means, judging by his tailoring, which he obviously wore for his occupation due to the level of formality, and the removal of his identifiable tie and pin. He spent some time in France, most likely Paris, but with little free time during the recent heat wave that occurred seven to nine days ago, if these reports are to be believed. He received a hard blow to his upper left chest some time perimortem, with enough force to break the fountain pen he habitually used, although the pathologist will have to confirm whether any injuries resulted. Now if that's enough to get your monkeys dancing, Lestrade, I have tests to run."

Leaving Lestrade gaping behind him, but knowing better than to request a (somewhat condescending) explanation after all this time, Sherlock began gathering the equipment he needed to compile his samples.

"Hmmm." With Lestrade muttering furiously into his phone on the other side of the room, Sherlock allowed himself to pause momentarily to consider the petite woman working on the parallel steel topped bench.

"But that could mean…"

"What have you observed, Molly?"

"Well, I'm not sure, of course, but there's something strange about his blood work. If I'm right, well, I think I may have found your cause of death…"

"And?"

"Murder."